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FOOTSTONES OF 
NATIO 



BY 



GEORGE E. BERTRAND 




Minneapolis, Minnesota 

1903 



Thfc LIERARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

MAR 31 1903 

Copyright tr.tiy 

CLASS JL XXc. No. 

COPY B. 



SAILING OF THE PILGRIMS. 

Who with transcendant vision shall foretell 
The marriage of events with time and place, 
Whereby the goal of human destiny 
Draws nearer through the inviolate law of God? 

They sailed from their great ocean-mother's arms, 
Far from the ban of vain, self-righteous rage ; 
The outcasts of the time ; they who were loathed, 
Despis-ed and reviled by them who scorned 
That such as these might lead in full mid-stream 
Of that great onward flood, which is the trend 
Of one eternal and unswerving will. 

They sailed, the sorrowing and fugitive ; 

Beholding England fade into the sea, 

As if the pillars of the world were gulfed 

Forever in the oblivion of the past. 

Then with wet vision to the westward glow, 

They journeyed on, stayed by the Infinite. 

O England, blind with pride of ancient power, 
That treasured the worn letter of old laws ! 
O purblind to that clearer light, which shone 
Above the mists o'ershadowing a world 
Grown fallow with the blight of creed and crown ! 
O narrow-visioned, that thy purest blood 
W T ent from thee bearing Freedom's hallowed fire, 
To eclipse in after time thy world-renown : 
What though with power long-cradled on the sea, 
Thou, from thy myriad prows, dost shed afar 
The fire of ancient empire from the North, 
To burn beneath the stars of every clime. 



MID-OCEAN HYMN. 

Lord God of Life, O thou almighty power, 

Who whirl'st the planets through the unbounded void 

From aeon unto aeon without end ; 

Who measurest the rhythm of thy myriad maze 

Of worlds sped onward through eternity ! 

Thou mak'st these heaving ocean solitudes 

To be the mirror of thine unchanging will, 

Whereon to lead our fateful pilgrimage. 

Out of the silence of the infinite 

Thy spirit broods upon the dim, broad seas ; 

And through dread vigils on the unknown deep, 

An unseen hand is pilot at the helm. 

Thou mak'st at dawn our wake a path of fire, 

And when the day burns dimmer in the West, 

Thou guid'st our ship to cleave the glowing main 

Full sail into the promise of clear skies. 

Thou mak'st these ribs of oak that clasp our keel 
To be as some great angel's bended arms, 
To bear us onward to our haven of Peace ; 
And lo, there falls upon our decks by night, 
A benison as from o'er-shadowing wings. 
And from the blended blue of sea and sky, 
Whence springs thy mighty arch of azure day, 
Blow prosperous winds to fill our eager sails. 

Blow gently from the dawn, O winds of God, 
That waft us to the molten floods of eve ! 
Blow from dead fires of forsaken hearths, 
To kindle Freedom's hearthstone over seas ! 
Blow from the ashes of old creeds of Hate, 
To kindle Love's new beacon in the West ! 
Blow from the crumbling pomp of ancient Pride, 
To fan the Christ-born fire of Truth beyond ! 



THE MAYFLOWER. 

A ship is sailing o'er the sea ; 

Her sails are white 

Against the light ; 

And as she sails 

No stranger hails 
From far to windward or alee. 

A ship glides on with even keel; 

Her sails are white 

Against the night ; 

And through night's pall 

No signals call, 
To start her pilot at the wheel. 

The sea birds circle to the West, 

And none but they 

To speed her way ; 

To speed her flight 

Through day and night ; 
O none but they to speed abreast 

And Oh the seas are fathomless ; 
And Oh the skies are echoless ; 

Yet winds of might 

Or crests of white, 

Amain shall mar 

Nor plank nor spar; 
For she is bringing o'er the sea 
A Grail to light the realm to be. 



LANDING AT PLYMOUTH. 

A noise of keels that strike the sands, 
And wakes that plash along the shores ; 
A silence of the folder oars, 

A silence, and the clasp of hands. 

A radiance falls upon their brows 

Touched by the chrism of toil and tears. 
A vision of the coming years 

Is breaking all about their prows. 

An age is waking from the womb 

Of mightier years, roused by the shock 
Of ringing footfalls at the rock 

That marks a vanished era's tomb. 

An age is dying. Let him die, 
Deep buried in the sands of time. 
Now let the ocean break and climb, 

And winds roar anthems through the sky. 

Blow, Blow, Blow inland from the shore ! 

Blow thundering to the western plains ! 

And thunder through the mountain chains ! 
For they shall sleep, O nevermore. 

They come, O they for whom the hills 

Have gathered up their floods, and swept 
Their treasures down where valleys slept, 

Against the time this hour fulfills. 

For whom time's brooding harmonies, 

Since first the sun was swung and whirled, 
Have loved and mellowed half the world, 

Whereon might bloom their destinies. 

Gleaned from the tares by Him whose hand 
Doth winnow clean the centuries ; 
Whose hand hath borne them over seas, 

And sown them in a virgin land. 

Seed chosen from God's threshing floor, 
Whereon the tireless flail of right 
Beats out the chaff of human might 

Forever, that from this silent shore 

Man's Harvest-Hymn might first be borne 
Unto the weary in all climes, 
And rung through all the aftertimes 

Afar on wide, free winds of morn. 



THE WILDERNESS. 

Where the winds of the Atlantic, 
From the northern ocean blowing, 

Drench and sway the elms gigantic, 
They, with guided hands unknowing, 
Laid the footstones for a nation ; 
Builded wide a deep foundation. 

Fearless in the leafy silence 

Went they, ready weaponed, singing; 
Sang, as David, their reliance ; 

Through the glooms their axes ringing ; 

Ancient mossy monarchs felling; 

Building each his primal dwelling. 

Weaponed for the hidden savage, 
They their arm-ed vigils keeping; 

'Fending 'gainst red-handed ravage 
Lurking near their children sleeping, 
'Till night's hushed and fearsome warning 
Brake into the praise of morning. 

Burials mid the pines low sighing; 

Burials by the sounding ocean ; 
Graves whereon great hope seemed dying, 

'Bated not their stern devotion ; 

They, like Israel, far beholding 

Gleams of final dawn unfolding. 

Rugged as their headlands, reaching 
Seaward for the light's first glowing, 

They, the strong of soul, beseeching 
Skyward Him the light bestowing, 
Made their hills, through time unending, 
Freedom's bastions Truth defending. 



THE MOTHERS. 

They, following, went into the wilderness, — 
They, following, yet with loving eagerness 
And joy of holier vision leading on, 
In spirit, them who, toiling, prayed and won. 

Deep in lone valleys, when the forest slept, 
They on rude hearths aglow their fires kept ; 
Whose smoke, like incense, to the skies uprose 
White o'er the still white mystery of the snows. 

And ever rose the hum of tireless wheels ; 
And ever sped the whirl of tireless reels; 
And ever tireless fingers spun and wove, 
While sturdier hands in field and forest strove. 

And ever sang their kettles at the crane; 
And blossoms nodded at the window pane; 
And ever through their song of toil they wove 
The tendrils of their fadeless flower of love. 

And from low doorways bowered in vine and flower, 
Sweet was their calling, at the noontide hour, 
To them with bosoms bared and even stride, 
Who reaped from dawn 'till shadowy eventide. 

And through that vast primeval silence came 
The glory of a presence, all aflame ; 
By whom, with chastening fire, their sons unborn 
Were hallowed for the sacrificial morn. 



PILGRIM SABBATH. 

Now in those woodland valleys dwells a deeplier calm, 
Low brooding o'er the shadowy mists, ere yet the balm 
Of sleep is lifted by the morning's forest psalm. 

With clearer light the day his ambient heaven fills, 
A calmer glory lights the rugged Sabbath hills, 
Whose upland dews the dawn with ruddier flush distils. 

And through the Sabbath fields no toilers go or come ; 
The ringing anvils, by the smothered fires, are dumb ; 
And by the rumbling rivers, stilled the mill-wheels' hum. 

Above the spreading elms the steeple vanes are still; 

And in that hallow-hush where speaks the Almighty will, 

They drain His holy chalice which the angels fill. 

At eve from many a chaste white hamlet, Sabbath bells 
Are calling, and the echo of their voices dwells 
And lingers long in all the vales and on the fells. 

And far into the forest, faint their echo rings ; 
And to the red man's soul a fateful presage brings, 
As by a spirit borne on evening's aery wings. 

And lo, in him they rouse a vision far and strange ; 

A dim and darkling portent of impending change. 

And as their murm'rings through the haunted silence range, 

His brooding spirit, in their dying echo, hears 

A voice prophetic of the peal of mighty years. 



MIANTONOMOH. 

Out of the bosom of the great water, 

Out of the ocean sunrise, 

Up-rose and hither came 

The great sea wings of the stranger. 

And behold, his footprints are upon our shores forever ; 

The shadow of his hand is upon my people. 

In vain sing the wing-ed death-arrows 
Sped from the bow of the hidden warrior. 
My braves are fallen as the Autumn leaves 
Blown by a mighty wind. 
Farewell, my spirit is broken ! 

I will go beyond, beyond through the dark shadow ; 

To the rivers of Summer moons ; 

To the valleys of the misty sunlight. 

In the forests of unending Summer 

I will dwell and hunt forever; 

There I will chase the flying antler with my fathers. 

Farewell, O faraway glimmer of still flowing rivers! 
Farewell, O valleys that swoon in the clasp of the mountains! 
Ye shall awaken with the rumbling of a roar unceasing. 
Farewell, O ye hills that chant the sunrise ! 
Ye shall be hidden by the smoke of the stranger's camp fires. 

Behold, in the shades dim illumined ; 

In the shades of the great brooding spirit ; 

Where the wings of the winds are folded ; 

The leaves of the forest are stirring, 

And lo, they shall wither and be consumed 

By the breath of a mightier Manitou. 

O, solitudes immemorial, immemorial! 
Ye are vanished, ye are vanished forever ; 
And the great silence shall be no more ! 



SALEM. 

Amid the widening light the men of Salem slept, 
While from the nether shades, a subtle demon crept 
Into their holy place, where, by dark spells enwound, 
He with strange witchery held the blinded Goddess bound. 

O men of Salem, while ye strove and suffered long 

In cruel struggle with a high-enthron-ed wrong, 

Ye in the letter of the law were tyrants grown ; 

Sweet mercy's gentle wings were from your altars flown ! 

O Salem, wrapped in that blind stupor of the soul, 
What crimes beneath the inviolate cloak of Justice stole ! 
What guiltless victims fell beneath the insatiate rod, 
Swayed from the outer darkness in the name of God ! 

Yet that they prayed, the broader age has them absolved ; 
For thus those fell medieval shades were there dissolved ; 
Shades of the underworld that lingered in the wake 
Of their soul-conquest, 'till the clearer light should break. 

They are forgiv'n, for they did rouse their souls and weep 
In memory of that strange dumb phrensy of their sleep ; 
For now the moaning horror of that day doth seem, 
Through clearer vision, the hideous phantom of a dream. 

They are forgiv'n, for that they wakened to the peal 
Rung through the wilds of Freedom for the wider weal ; 
Rung from the far untam-ed floods and peaks, where throng 
The coming years that gather in triumphant song. 



REVOLUTION. 

How calm their sleep, 
Who fell in battle, tyrant-slain, 
When Freedom from her windy hills 
Waved to the skies her rallying fires ! 

When from their village-spires was rung 

Unto the world that fated hour, 

They from their smoking furrows sprang; 

And every humble village forge 

Was made a glowing altar-fire, 

Whereon they laid their sickles and their pruning knives, 

That, lo, were there transfigured white and straight 

As Archangel swords. 

First born of young Columbia, 

Who, victory-crowned, rang out the bridal bells 

Of Liberty and Peace ! 

Beneath the sacred shadows 

Of their mighty guardian elms, 

How calm their sleep ! 

For their spirits dwell upon the mountain peaks, 

And their visions range the Eastern and the Western seas, 

And they see their children's ships 

Sail glory-laden into the horizons of the morning 

And into the glow of the dying ocean-sun, 

And they know the far fruition of their deeds. 



THANKSGIVING. 

I. 

O azure peace that dwelleth calm above the winds ! 

O silent, onward tides that move beneath the waves ! 

O far horizons of the sea and sky of life, 

Where-through with God-illumined brows our sires came ! 

O Freedom, spirit of the uncag-ed wings of light, 

That, gazing seaward, high her flaming beacon held ! 

O waiting shores ! O valleys wild, free, virginal, 

Where-through they drove their furrows with unswerving tread ! 

O guiding power of life ! O strong unwavering trust, 

Through hidden perils of the silent wilderness! 

O ransom of unmurmuring toil and sorrow, laid 

At Freedom's feet by eager and inviolate hands ! 

O rage sublime that scourged the alien hand outstretched, 

To claim the tribute wrung by thron-ed lust from slaves ! 

They sleep, but we, their later born, that reach beyond, 
Into the boundless vista of our heritage, 
Shall time our triumph to the echo of their drums, 
Our paeans to the echo of their bells of Peace. 

O break, faint whisperings of the majesty of God, 
Into the thunder-pinioned tumult of his praise! 
Break, bounded vision of the unbounded Infinite, 
To wide, eternal hallow-calms of Light and Life ! 



II. 

Now let the mad white rage of furnace fires 

Be glowing censers breathing smoke of praise ! 

Now let the rumbling of your ruthless iron wheels 

Unto the sleepless millions be 

Deep undertones of some great flood of song ! 

O ye that madly reach with greed of grasping hands, 

Now let the clamor of your myriad tongues 

Swell to that mightier rhythm of the new millennial hymn ! 

Praise Him, O ye that winnow out the sheaves 
Sown and resown by mart3^r hands, 
And gathered unto Freedom's garner 
Down through twice a thousand years ! 

For behold, the seas are narrower grown 

Since first their feet did consecrate our shores ; 

And we that strive and vanquish 

In the glory of a clearer day, 

Stand on their hallowed promontories, 

And speak with new tongues from shore to shore 

Of those dread weary deeps, 

Whereon they sailed their pilgrimage. 



3477-133 
Lot 74 



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